Black Holes

I need a fall-back position, where I just thrash on the floor and complain, indulge my weaker side: if you think about it, you know what I mean. We all do this all the time, toss and turn, seeking a way to sleep through the night. Nothing means anything, really, you're on your own. I'd like to wash my hair, but these bat scabs preclude. Fact of life, what you can and can not do. Not sleep, for starters, get up and cook a huge breakfast that includes foods from every group, involving bacon and several things fried in the remaining bacon fat. No remorse, a second double espresso. No eminent threat of rain and I realize I must go to the museum and get the sculptural pieces from the Wrack Show out of the kitchen because they're blocking the loading door and the Aminah Show comes down Tuesday and needs to out-load through that door. Sara is staff today and we cross paths. I'm struck with how we both not only love the museum but consider it a second home. This is the best job I've ever had, dealing with art, handling things, installing shows. Actually, I've really enjoyed most of the things I've done, the Opera Company Of Boston, building houses, fabricating stairs, constructing world-class showers, binding books, making paper, the list goes on forever. But I'm loading the truck with these pieces and their pedestals and realize it's a lot of stuff. When I get home it takes up the whole house. Sculpture everywhere and nary a drop to drink, I'll be living with broken toes. It's not that I kick them on purpose, I just run into them in the night. This why moving furniture is a bad idea, you get up in the night, you think you know where things are. There was a course at Janitor College, Dustpan 204, I remember the professor clearly, T. Weldon Quiggly, the best person I've ever known with a grinder; he sharpened his chisels with a belt-sander and they were really sharp, I was young and easily impressed. Like sailing a Catboat, I guess, you get used to doing things a certain way. Expect guests to know more than they do. With the Hubble we're getting closer to the beginning, be good to know where we started. Might make things a little more clear, clearer, you might say, more transparent. But, but. A Molly Bloom moment, I bang away, an excruciating moment when the splinted toe meets an immovable stump. Believe what you will. Real pain is an altered state, nothing prepares you. That jammed finger you got playing baseball will be with you the rest of your life. Like the smell of your grandfather's hat. I'm not advising anything, just commenting. That rock I see in the road. House bats are rarely rabid. Hold onto that. The future. Usually not. What you thought you were you were hearing. Might be Bach, the cello suites, making sense.